When the Bat's Away
by palmtreedragons
Summary: From breakfast to road trips, Bruce's boys make sure he never has it easy being their guardian. Alfred finds it highly amusing. Featuring holidays, some visits from the Justice League, and Pokémon Go.
1. Stealth Mode

**So this is my first Batman fic! And what better to write about than the Batfam?**

 **No, I don't own DC, Batmam, the characters, etc. Otherwise there would be more stuff like this floating around.**

 **A/N: If you guys like quality Marvel/DC art, you should totally follow my Instagram:** **palm . tree . dragons** **! (No spaces).**

 **~palmtreedragons**

* * *

It had all started when Bruce made the fatal mistake of criticizing Nightwing's stealth mode.

"It could do better," Bruce offhandedly commented as the two returned from a rather successful night of bashing in drug lords' teeth.

The once-Robin scoffed. "'Better'?"

Bruce shrugged, beginning to strip off his heavy armor. "I can hear your footsteps. If you wanna be good, you gotta take me by surprise."

Pensive, Dick strode off. Bruce thought nothing more of it; Dick could be childish at times, sure—but he was an adult now. An adult with his own job and his own city to protect. He was a responsible citizen.

* * *

Two days later, and the Joker was blowing up hospitals. And as if that wasn't enough to put himself and all of Gotham on edge, Bruce couldn't find his cowl. The famous Batman could not fight evil without a mask—and he certainly _could not_ fight the Joker with his bare face. And yet, his city needed him. Perhaps a ski mask would suffice.

Just as Bruce made his way to find Alfred, he heard a low whistle. Freezing on the spot, Batman immediately tried to locate the source of the sound, but the noise echoed off the walls of his lair, making it seem as if it came from everywhere and no where.

"Show yourself!" Bruce shouted. And suddenly, his hands were grasping his head as he hissed in pain. Looking to the floor, he saw what had struck his head from above: his cowl. "What the—"

 _"Surprise!"_

Bruce grunted as a weight was suddenly set upon his shoulders. "Dick?" he spluttered. "What the hell?"

"Was that stealthy enough for ya, Brucie?"

"Stealth?" the Batman asked, voice raising. " _The Joker just blew up Gotham General!_ We can talk about your stealth later."

"But you had to admit," Dick crowed as he gracefully dropped from his mentor's shoulders, "I surprised you."

"Yeah, yeah," Bruce muttered, stopping down to retrieve his cowl. "Now, are you going to help me shred maniacs to bits, or what?"

* * *

Unfortunately for Bruce, it didn't stop there. Over the course of the next few weeks, Bruce would suddenly find his first sidekick in the most obscene places. Dick would be in Bruce's closet, on the ceiling, sitting on the top of the refrigerator—once, he was even _in_ the couch. Bruce was still baffled as to how he managed that one.

"Don't you have a job?" Bruce roared as he found Dick sitting in the pantry, rather than his morning cereal.

Dick only grinned. "Why go do boring stuff when I can hang out with my favorite vigilante?"

Bruce slammed the door on Dick's cackling face.

* * *

By the eighteenth day, Dick could tell his adoptive father was catching on to his plans. He would simply greet Dick when he found him hiding. Sometimes he would give a dry comment without so much as looking for him, already sensing the young man's presence.

Batman once told Dick his most admirable trait was his persistence. And that was a trait the now Nightwing still held to this day.

It was a Sunday morning, and Bruce was already regretting scheduling a morning meeting with his advisors. After stumbling out of bed, he opened his closet, half expecting his son to greet him with his too-cheery face.

But there was no Dick. Frowning, Bruce began to skim through his suits, pushing hung outfits down the rack as he decided against them. He eyed a navy blue suit and grabbed it, suddenly noticing the abnormal weight it possessed. Pulling it into view, Bruce saw with surprise that there was a person inside his hung suit jacket.

After a moment of stunned silence, a head popped out from between the lapels. "Hello, Father."

No matter how much Bruce swore against it, Damian would stubbornly stand by the fact that his father screamed like a young girl.


	2. Sunday Breakfast

Dick Grayson was excited. This was not an unusual occurrence, but Dick was happy because it was Sunday. And on Sundays, Alfred always bought donuts.

Dick's sudden appearances had not lessened, and now he was a frequent visitor. Bruce often remarked that Dick lived here now more than himself. Climbing through an open window on the second floor (it was far more fun than using the front door), Dick padded down one of the long corridors of the estate and made a beeline for the kitchen. The tradition had started years ago, back when Dick had still held the title of the Robin. Every Sunday Alfred would provide the vigilante and his sidekick with the fresh breakfast treats, and the tradition still held to this day. Dick thought of it as the highlight of his week.

Shoving open the doors to the kitchen, Dick sighed as the smell of the beloved pastry wafted towards him. He made his way to the table, when he suddenly noticed a figure hovering above the donut box.

"Jason?"

The man in question's head shot up. A donut was in his hand, and white powder was smeared across his face. The sight made Dick giggle, but Jason's murderous glare caused him to try and stifle it. Jason grumpily finished off his donut and reached for another. Dick cheerfully walked up to the box to grab his own. When he peered in the box, it was empty.

Jason blinked in confusion. One moment he had the donut in his hand, the next it was _gone_. Glancing up at his adoptive somewhat brother, he saw the item in question. Jason extended his arm, trying to snatch it back. "Dude, give it."

Dick stubbornly shook his head, stepping just out of his opponent's reach. "No way. You ate them all. At least give me one!"

Jason lunged at the flying Grayson, who narrowly missed the grabbing hands. "It's mine!"

"It's _mine_. You ate nearly a dozen by yourself. Don't be greedy."

"I got it first!"

Thus began the chase for the last donut. Dick took off sprinting down the hallway, turning sharp corners and taking what passageways he thought were most unfamiliar to Jason. After a quick minute, Dick lost sight of Jason behind him. He slowed his pace, about to indulge in his favorite breakfast, when Jason leapt out from the corner. The donut was now in his possession, and he took off like a madman. Dick was hot on his heels. The two continued like that, chasing each other as the donut switched possession.

Dick, who now had the donut, turned the corner. He was met with a dead end. Turning fearfully, he supposed he would have to fight Jason for the prize. _Was breaking your brother's arm over a donut a bit too extreme?_

 _Nah_.

Jason started towards Dick. Dick had his fist protectively set before him and the hand holding the donut high above his head. Just before the two collided, the window beside them shattered. Dick and Jason tumbled apart, dodging broken glass and the young man who broke it.

Tim smirked triumphantly as he snatched the donut from an unsuspected Dick's hand. "It's Sunday! And if I have to kill you two to get this, then so be it!"

Tim ran down the hall. Jason and Dick exchanged a knowing look. _If we can't have it, he can't have it either_. The team of two began to track down their younger brother.

It wasn't hard to find him; anywhere the donut went, it left a trail of powdered dust. Alfred would have their heads for ruining his carpet. In the living room, the trail of dust stopped. Dick and Jason went into stealth mode, silently tracking the third Robin. Jason looked back at Dick, shrugging. Dick was about to forfeit their mission when he noticed Jason's hair. The top of it was seemingly lighter—and he was positive it wasn't his signature grays near his hairline. It was as if something white had fallen on his head. . . .

Dick tilted his head, looking to the ceiling. Timothy Drake was there, curled up around one of the rafters, the donut clutched in his hand. He let out a scream as Jason scaled the wall. Tim was in the action of putting the donut in his mouth when Jason slapped it out of his hand. They watched helplessly as the donut tumbled to the ground. Dick, in all his agile and athletic glory, reached his hand out to catch it. It bounced off the tips of his fingers, and tumbled out the window.

An eerie silence fell about the room. Jason and Tim dropped from the rafters, landing at their brother's side.

Dick pouted. "God dammit, Jason."

Jason was about the retort when Tim held up a hand to silence the two. They each listened to the sounds from outside the window; birds chirping, a light breeze swaying the leaves.

"Is that . . . laughing?"

A gleeful, maniacal laughter filtered into the room. Racing to the window, they could see the youngest Batchild, donut in hand.

 _"Damian!"_ Dick shrieked. The three brothers tumbled headfirst out the window.

* * *

Bruce got out of his car, eyes set on the front door of Wayne Manor. He always made sure to schedule meetings on Sunday morning. Usually by the time he got home, the chaos would die down a bit. Eager to change from his business suit into a far more important one, he grabbed his briefcase and closed the car door. About halfway to the door, his youngest came tearing down the lawn, a mushy, powdery donut in his hand. He ran straight past Bruce, never stopping, but shouting a quick, _"Father, they're trying to murder me!"_

Bruce sighed. It seemed he got home a bit too early. Tim came next, his face red and his hair windblown. "Get back here, you little twerp! You stole my donut!" He left as quickly as he had appeared.

Before Bruce could move, another son appeared. Dick looked more worried than anything else. He skidded to a stop, grabbing Bruce's shoulders and positioning his father like a human shield. "I pushed Jason out the window and he fell in a bush. _Hide me!_ "

As Jason came into view, Dick gave a yelp and hid behind Bruce's car.

"Good morning, Jason," Bruce said in a calm yet warm voice.

Jason looked worse for wear. He had leaves and twigs crowning the top of his head. His hair and face were coated with powder. To top it all off, he was limping. He grunted in response to Bruce's greeting. "It will be when I get my hands around Grayson's neck."

Bruce watched as the angriest of his sons hobbled off. He couldn't quite tell if Jason was joking or not.

Alfred chose that moment to emerge from the car, his groceries in tow. "Shall I tell them I purchased another box for breakfast, Master Bruce?"

Bruce smiled brightly, shaking his head. "Wait just a little longer. They amuse me."

* * *

 **Hey guys! Hope you liked it. Now I really want some donuts. . . .**

 **A/N: No I don't own Batman. If I did this would all be canon.**

 **Anybody got any ideas for future chapters?**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	3. Nicknames

It was at dinner one night, many years ago, when Dick first gave Bruce the name. Nothing but a giddy acrobat child, Dick didn't seem to quite grasp the etiquette of the upper class. To put it simply, the kid's table manners were disastrous.

Somehow he had gotten mashed potatoes in his hair, and a green bean was flung across the table as he noisily tackled his steak. Bruce groaned in exasperation, as Alfred looked on in controlled horror. "Dick, do you think you could . . . I don't know, chew your food before you inhale it? Maybe slow down a bit?"

Dick looked up at his father and chirped around a mouthful of dinner, "Sure thing, Brucie Wucie!"

Bruce choked on his meal an Alfred stifled a bout of laughter. Dick observed this, looking infinitely proud of the minor chaos he had caused. It was this that powered Dick to keep the name around; somehow, whenever Bruce least expected it, Dick would always whip out the name.

And even worse: somehow, as soon as one of the newer Robins met their oldest brother, they name would find itself in their day-to-day vocabulary. Bruce would never admit that he loved it, but the small smirk on his lips told Dick everything he needed to know.

* * *

Dick hadn't received his nickname until little Damian joined the crew. One day during training, he was kicking Damian's ass a little too well, and decided to lighten up the fight. "C'mon, Little D, that the best you got?"

Damian gave his signature sneer, swiping at Dick with his katana. Dick easily dodged it. "Don't call me that, Grayson."

Dick bounced off the wall, leaping over the stair's railing and onto the second floor. He took Damian's dislike as a positive sign. "Gonna have to work harder than that to catch me, Little D!"

Bruce walked into the cave in just enough time to see Damian punch his brother square in the face. Dick tumbled backwards, clutching his nose, before falling onto the floor. Bruce smiled fondly at the two.

Damian twirled his sword in his hand, walking off triumphantly. "Was I too fast for you, Big D?"

* * *

When Jason came up with his genius superhero name, he was just asking for it.

Bruce, for the most part, ignored Jason. Not in a bad way—more of a "I'll just let my rebellious son do what he likes to prevent any fighting" way. Tim, secretly, was slightly intimidated by his older brother. He was bigger, angrier, and more aggressive. Together, they made a bad combination. Tim steered clear of his brother. Damian just didn't like Jason—he didn't like most of his family most of the time.

But Jason's only older brother didn't mind or didn't care about Jason's moodiness.

Jason strode into the manor one morning, content with his family's ignoring. The Red Hood glared as Dick jogged up to him. He was giving that Dick Grayson smile that irritated Jason so much. "What's up, Little Red Riding Hood?"

Anyone within the vicinity immediately broke into laughter, and anyone not around to hear this new name was soon informed. Jason turned as red as his mask and attacked Dick. Bruce had to break up the fight, but only after wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes.

* * *

And when Tim got his new name, it was no different.

Dick was immediately reminded of a certain establishment with a similar name. Tim entered the cave, his new superhero suit donned and ready for action. Bruce and Damian were at Bruce's computer, scrolling through some reports and cases filed.

"Hey, guys," Tim said warmly. The two turned to him, and and Tim heard a rustling noise from above.

"Reeeeeeedd Roobiiin!" Dick shouted as he fell from the ceiling.

Bruce and Damian then finished: "Yuummmmm!"

Tim turned on his heel and stalked away, refusing to talk to them for the rest of the day.

* * *

Every name in the Bat Family was created by Dick and his punny ways—well, all except one. Bruce and the boys were appreciating Alfred and his super-butler ways of juggling all the men's needs.

"Y'know," Jason said suddenly, "Alfred's kinda like a superhero, too. He's not just a butler." All the men nodded in agreement, smiling as Alfred modestly told them it was his job. Jason then gave a wicked grin. "He's the Batler."

* * *

 **This was just a short little chapter about what I think the boy's nicknames would be. Did no one else notice Tim had the same name as a food place with a catchy jingle? I'm sure his brothers did!**

 **I was originally going to post another chapter, but it was so long and I liked it so much I decided to make it its own story. You guys should check it out!**

 **As always, reviews are my lifeblood! And I could use the ideas for my story! Thanks you guys!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	4. Road Trip

When Dicked marched into the Manor pouting, Bruce knew only trouble would ensue.

"What kind of family are we?" the eldest son of Batman demanded, stopping in front of his father. Bruce glanced up from his morning newspaper.

"I'm sorry?" Bruce questioned.

"We've never had a road trip," Dick clarified angrily. "What family doesn't have a road trip?"

"Ours," said Bruce simply, returning to his paper.

"Oh, no you don't." Dick snatched the paper out of Bruce's hands, tossing it carelessly over his shoulder. "We need to have a road trip.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"Dick, _no_."

"Bruce!" Dick pouted, giving him wide, innocent eyes. "Pwease?"

Bruce rolled his eyes. He always had a soft spot for Dick, but a road trip? Well . . . it couldn't be that bad, could it? "Fine."

Dick leapt into the air, bestowing upon Bruce a billion thank yous. He quickly dashed around the corner, screaming out for Damian and Alfred to come hear the good news.

And that was how Bruce found himself cramming five large suitcases into the trunk, mentally preparing himself for the next few hours with his boys. They didn't bond much outside of their vigilante work, but Bruce was sure being stuck together inside an enclosed space for nearly a day would surely kill them all.

Damian was sitting in the backseat, a thick book in his lap. He adamantly refused to speak to any of his kin, and studiously ignored his surroundings. He might as well paint a target on his back for Big Brother Dick. Tim was next to come out to the car, his attention glued to his phone. He got into the backseat with his younger brother. Bruce knew that Dick would nag him about him being on his phone later. But as for Dick himself. . . .

"Alfred, have you seen Dick?" Alfred was approaching the car, one last luggage in hand. He would not be joining them for "obvious reasons." Bruce took the suitcase from his hand and tried the cram it into the trunk. It would be a miracle if the door closed.

"I'm afraid not, sir. I haven't seen him all morning."

"He better not be getting cold feet," Bruce sighed. "This was his idea, and after all this trouble, we're—"

 _"Oh, Brucie!"_ Dick sang. Bruce turned around to see his son carrying a large sack over his shoulder.

"For the love of God," Bruce mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Dick dropped the sack on the ground before Alfred and Bruce. Alfred gasped as the sack began to move. "Master Bruce, what—?"

Dick pulled out a pocket knife (all the boys had gadgets stowed on them at all times) and made a small hole at one end. He tore the fabric wider, and out popped Jason's head, complete with duct tape across his mouth and murder in his eyes. Bruce couldn't even bring himself to be angry—he only felt exhausted. "Dick, I thought I made it clear we have a no abduction policy."

"He wasn't cooperating," Dick stated defensively. "What did you expect me to do?"

* * *

Other than the radio, the car ride was silent. Dick squirmed in the front passenger seat, obviously not liking the silence. "Let's play a game."

Everyone in the car groaned.

"I spy with my little eye . . . something yellow."

"Is it the lines on the road?" Tim asked without looking up from his phone. He was only amusing Grayson because if nobody else did, it would be a very annoying few hours.

"Yeah!" Dick shouted enthusiastically. Bruce's knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. Damian (who was sandwiched between his brothers in the back seat) turned a page in his novel, and Jason's eyes were locked on the passing trees. "I spy with my little eye something . . . something . . . er—"

Jason sighed, lightly banging his head against the window. "Lord, give me patience or an untraceable handgun."

* * *

"Who ya texting?"

Tim was seriously regretting speaking to his older brother before, because Dick apparently took it as an invitation to chat his ear off. The acrobat was turned in his seat so he was facing his brothers in the back row.

"No one."

"Is it your girlfriend?"

"No."

"Is it your boyfriend?"

"What? No!"

"Who?"

Time groaned. "Konner. Sheesh."

Dick turned in his seat, facing the front. It was silent once more. Dick sighed, turning back to his brothers. "Whatcha readin', Little D?"

"Screw off, Grayson."

Dick pouted, now turning to Bruce. "Bruce, make Damian apologize."

"Damian, apologize," Bruce mumbled. He could feel a migraine coming on.

"No."

Dick sighed. He turned to Jason, but decided that if he provoked his moody brother, it would certainly lead to his doom.

* * *

"How much longer until Central City?"

"I don't know," ground out the Caped Crusader through gritted teeth. Dick's non-stop chatter was driving them up the wall.

Dick sighed, slumping down in his seat. "Dad, I'm bored."

"Hi, Bored," Bruce said. "I'm Batman."

Dick frowned. "Fine. You guys are no fun. I'm sure KF will be happy to hang out with me!"

In the backseat, Jason was making kissing noises. Dick whirled around. "Real mature, Todd. Wally's a friend."

Jason smirked. "Dick and Wally sittin' in a tree. F-U-C-K-I-N-G."

"Shut up!"

"If you like him so much, why don't you just marry him?"

 _"Enough!"_ Dick lunged out of his seat, hands grasping at Jason's throat.

Jason grinned, thoroughly enjoying how easy it was to make Dick mad. He was such a cry baby. "Gosh, there's so much sexual tension when you two hang out!"

Damian growled as Dick accidentally knocked his book closed. Dick and Jason froze, each looking in terror as the littlest Robin glared back. "You made me lose my page."

Dick laughed nervously. "S-sorry?"

Bruce sighed as Damian began beating Dick, who was beating Jason, who was beating Dick back. Tim shrunk towards the car door, trying to escape his brothers' quarrel. "Can't you do something, Bruce?"

"Boys, get back in your seat or I will turn this car around!"

Dick screamed as Damian bit his arm. Jason put the current Robin in a headlock, muttering a string of curses. No one was listening.

"Bruce, Damian's _murdering_ Dick!"

"Shut up, Drake! This is the fight I've been waiting for!"

 _"BRUCE, HELP!"_

Bruce only shook his head. "This is _so_ not happening again."

* * *

 **And that right there is why the Waynes take no road trips.**

 **A/N #1: Someone pointed out a few errors I made in my previous chapters, which I went back and fixed.**

 **A/N #2: I love writing these things, but unfortunately my creativity is lacking. It would be a great help if some of you gave me some prompts!**

 **A/N #3: I've decided to do mass updates on Saturdays, where I update all my stories at once. Hopefully this works.**

 **Once again, thanks you guys!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	5. Paintball

Bruce wasn't sure what hit him, but suddenly his nice business suit had a dark red streak down the front. Part of Bruce went into Bat-mode, and identified the red as blood. The logical, Bruce part told him he wasn't hurt, the blood wasn't his, and the blood was in fact paint.

"Dick!" he roared, setting his briefcase down and marching off to find the boy in question.

"Wasn't me!" Dick shouted from somewhere in the vast web of halls that constructed Wayne Manor. Bruce frowned. His frown deepened when he saw bright yellow paint splattering the walls, occasional mixed with blue or green, or the infamous red. Bruce groaned, knowing full well what that meant.

"Boys," he groaned to an absent audience. "How many times do I have to tell you? No paintballing in the house!"

Bruce turned the corner and quite literally stumbled into Tim. The Red Robin was covered in gear, and he had a mix of green and purple covering him chest plate. "Hey, Bruce! Wanna join? All we have left is pink, but you know what they say—"

"Couldn't you have done this outside?"

Tim shrugged, his paintball gun clicking against his armor. Bruce noted from the end of the gun's residue that Timothy was most likely the yellow paint that had covered the walls. "That's no fun. There's nowhere to hide!"

"Isn't that the point?" Tim's reply was cut short as his helmet was suddenly sprayed with blue paint. Tim took off down the hall, looking for cover. Bruce smiled as he heard the echoing laughter that he always associated with his eldest Robin.

Bruce's smile was soon dropped as he felt blue paint hit the back of his jacket. "I'm not playing, Dick!"

"That wasn't me!" Dick insisted once more. "I'm blue!"

Bruce removed his jacket and saw that paint was purple. He frowned. Leave it to Damian or Jason to be picking on him. Less pleased than before, he set off to his office. That was the one place that the boys _knew_ was out-of-bounds. He knew the boys could not be stopped, and pretty much all the things in the halls that were ruined could easily be replaced.

Only a few turns away from his destination, Bruce saw green. No, he didn't see green paint on the floor or walls or anywhere else. He _saw_ green. He swore and rubbed furiously at his eyes, which were now slightly burning.

There was only one Robin skilled enough and brave enough to take that shot. "Damian! I know that was you!"

Bruce heard rather than saw his youngest drop from the ceiling, equipped with full paitballing gear. "Sorry, Father. I thought you were Grayson."

"That's comforting to know." There was a sudden screech as someone was nailed with a pellet, and Damian disappeared. Bruce, with another tired sigh, continued to his safe haven.

As it turns out, the screech was poor Jason. The three Batkids had him cornered, and were covering him in the three colors of their pick. Bruce partially felt like he should intervene. But it was quite funny to see him crying for Bruce's help.

In the blink of an eye, the three attackers' backs were nearly covered in purple. Bruce turned to meet the assailant that finally brought this madness to an end. He laughed aloud when he saw the figure, not a single color dotting his normal clothing.

"Hello, Master Bruce." Then, to the four troublemakers, "I do assume you will help with the clean-up?"

Sadly, the four boys nodded. They hoped, even if it was just once, they could beat Alfred. The butler remained paintball champion once more.

* * *

 **It's short, but hopefully I can write more next week. I just kind of loved the idea of the Batfam paintballing, and _of course_ Alfred would always win.**

 **Thanks for the reviews, views, favorites, and follows. You guys are the best!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	6. Favorites

Like all arguments in the Cave, it started with training. Dick and Damian were sparring hand-to-hand, as usual. Jason sat glumly in the corner cleaning out his extensive gun collection, and Tim and Bruce were at the large computer, researching leads on the newest tights-clad villain running around Gotham. Dick knocked Damian to the ground easily.

"You focus too much on the offensive approach. You need to be more defensive."

Jason snorted in the background. "Damian needs to be _more_ defensive? Never thought I'd live to see the day."

"What's that suppose to mean, Todd?" Damian called stubbornly. He lifted himself from the ground, arrogantly brushing off his clothes.

Dick held his hands palms out between the two, as if to hold them back from each other. "Guys, let's take a breather. I think we're all a little defensive here."

Jason shrugged and went back to his guns. Damian crossed his arms defiantly and huffed, "At least I'm the better son."

A pin dropping to the floor could be heard after this statement. Damian remained glaring between his two brothers. Jason froze mid-action. Slowly, he lifted his head to the youngest Robin. "What did you say?"

"You heard me right."

Dick looked helplessly to the front, where Bruce and Tim still sat. Bruce seemed oblivious to the conversation, but Tim eagerly lended Dick a helping hand. "If Bruce likes any of us, it's me and not you, Damian," he joked lightly.

"Don't listen to Tim, Damian. He's wrong," Bruce put in, not removing his eyes from the monitor. "I don't like him either."

Damian didn't seem to pick up on the sarcasm. "Stay out of this. Both of you."

Jason, who had recognized the jokes, merely rolled his eyes. "I'm way more responsible than you two. I'm reckless, yes, but responsible."

"And contradictory," Tim deadpanned, turning in his seat to fully face his brother.

"Oh yeah?" Jason shot back. "You say that like you've never done anything dumb."

"Yeah," Tim said simply. "I haven't."

"What about that time you dared me to lick the giant penny?"

"That wasn't me, Jason," Tim deadpanned.

"Yeah, it was."

"No. I said, 'Jason, _don't_ lick the giant penny.' You yelled, ' _Don't tell me what to do,_ _Drake!_ ' and licked the penny."

"Oh, yeah," Jason said slowly, recollecting the memory. "Yup. Sounds like something I would do."

"Guys," Dick interjected, "That's not the point. The point is, Bruce doesn't have to have favorites."

Damian, still unsatisfied, turned to face the Batman. "Father, which one of us is your favorite."

"Dick."

" _Bruce!"_ cried Dick, horrified and outraged. "I'm honored, but you can't pick your favorite child!"

"Not of all time," Bruce explained, "but in this moment, you're the least annoying."

The boys fell silent for a brief moment. They supposed that was true; Dick was usually the most level-headed.

Breaking the silence, Jason spoke, "Okay, so Dick's the least annoying, but who's your favorite?"

"SHUT UP, JASON!"

* * *

 **Firstly, let me just say that the penny skit and the "Bruce loves me, not you, Damian" thing were taken from two _hilarious_ fan arts I've seen, and I wanted to give credit before anything else.**

 **As always, reviews and prompts are the best! Note: I've gotten a small few, I just haven't gotten around to writing them yet.** **The more I get, the more (and better) I write!**

 **See ya next week!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	7. Sick Days

It was one of the rare sunny days in Gotham, where the sun shone through the thick, foggy atmosphere and gave people the motivation to go outside. Bruce would have loved to. But here he sat, on his couch. Tim and Jason were acting civil towards each other for once, Damian was _snuggling,_ and Dick was pitifully singing some stupid Disney song. How did any of this happen?

Because Dick came home with a cough.

When it came to Richard Grayson, he was, deep down, a five-year-old. Not only in the jokes and the affection, but in the fact that he had to touch _everything_. It annoyed Bruce to no end, their first few years together. Dick would slide his hands down public handrails, touch anything from statues to wildlife, shake hands with strangers—practically anything to collect as many germs on his hands as possible. So it never came as a shock to anyone that Dick frequently got sick.

Jason and Tim were much more Bruce's style. They were, you could say, "germophobes." Use napkins to turn sink knobs, waving to people instead of shaking hands when you could—the whole nine yards. But, unlike Bruce, they had some of the world's worst immune systems. It was a classic parent nightmare: when one kid came home sick, everyone was sick.

So when Dick came home with a cough, Bruce knew it was going to be a rough day. He sent Dick to his room to quarantine the virus. Hopefully, Dick wasn't home long. _Hopefully_ , no more sickness.

Then Jason sneezed. Allergies? Bruce couldn't be that lucky. Two hours later, and the three eldest Robins were strewn about the couch, one big mess of sickness. If they were sick together, there was really no sense of keeping them apart. Besides, perhaps they would complain to each other, rather than to Bruce. Bruce watched them wearily from the doorway, already feeling a migraine coming. He hoped he wasn't getting sick, too.

"Hello, Father." Bruce turned towards the voice behind him. He nearly yelled in surpise as Damian, equipped with a medical mask, stood beside him.

"Damian," Bruce breathed. "We've talked about this. Give a little warning before you sneak up on people, maybe?"

" _Tt_. In your dreams, old man." And with that, Damian entered the room. Bruce felt comfortable letong Damian in; not only did he have Bruce's immune system, but he was strongly opposed to getting sick. He would avoid sickness at whatever cost. He stopped at the edge of the couch, where a red-faced Jason lay. "Did you take my pillow?"

There was a long pause. "Maybe."

A sigh. "I suppose I can't ask you to give it back."

"C'mon, Dee! Join us!" Dick called gleefully, chucking a sick-infested pillow at his brother's head. Damian leapt backward like a cat avoiding water—hiss and everything.

Bruce sighed once more. He had to find Alfred. Perhaps the butler could "accidentally" give the boys a bit too much medicine, coincidentally making them sleep through the rest of the day.

"GRAYSON, UNHAND ME!" Bruce turned on his heel, stalking back towards the quarantined room. Dick was hugging Damian, who he had pulled onto the couch to join his brothers.

"Dick, let go of your brother! Stop hugging him! _You're sick!_ "

* * *

It was one of the rare sunny days in Gotham, where the sun shone through the thick, foggy atmosphere and gave people the motivation to go outside. Bruce would have loved to. But here he sat, on his couch. Tim and Jason were acting civil towards each other for once, Damian was snuggling _,_ and Dick was pitifully singing some stupid Disney song. How did any of this happen?

Because Dick came home with a cough. And now, curled up on the couch with Damian pitifully cuddle next to him and some cheesy Disney movie on, Bruce had one, too.

* * *

 **Sorry for the shortness you guys! I had to write this before I went to a water park with my friend. (It was either now or next week :/ )**

 **Anyways, I'm always open o suggestions and Prompts. Hope you guys liked this!**

 **Stay awesome!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	8. Father's Day

The third Sunday of June wasn't a mushy, gooey mess of tears and hugs and kisses. And, hell, Bruce would _die_ if it was. Father's Day wasn't exactly celebrated at the manor. There were no cake or presents. It was just another day. To Bruce, it was. The boys knew Bruce hated celebrations and parties, but that didn't stop them from celebrating it with him anyway, in their own, special ways.

Bruce woke early after his very few hours of sleep. He immediately readied for work at Wayne Enterprises. Though he was, as many would call him, a "laid-back-figurehead" of the company, that did not exclude him from certain meetings. He walked to the door himself, alone and griping silently about how truly boring the day would be. Shockingly, Damian was standing by the front door, clad with a business suit and tie.

"This is a surprise," Bruce stated humorously. His son turned as his father approached.

"I figured that if I will be inheriting Wayne Enterprises, I should become accustomed to its board." _What a load of crap_ , Bruce thought with a grin. If there was one thing Damian hated, it was board meetings. The first one Bruce took his son to, Damian left the room, shouting about how "ignorant and blatantly stupid" everyone was. And here he was, suit, tie, and forced smile.

Bruce bent down to his young son's level and straightened his tie. It was a familiar gesture; one his father used to do to himself. "Alright, let's go."

* * *

Dick and Tim's approach was much more direct. When Bruce returned from work (Damian indeed made a scene, but only after the meeting was adjourned) the two stood in the foyer, each with a card and a smile.

"I thought I said not to make a deal out of this." Bruce loosened his tie and shrugged out of his suit jacket.

Tim shrugged. "It's only a party if we get you a present. We just got cards."

"Besides," Dick pouted, "you're our dad! Putting up with us year-round deserves at least _some_ recognition."

Bruce rolled his eyes, but accepted the cards nonetheless. Tim's, like usual, was a nice card with a message and a little doodle inside. Dick's, like usual, was a messy hand-made card scribbled on with colorful crayons. He always had crappy handwriting. With a thank you and a hug that was insisted by Dick, the three went on with their day.

* * *

It wasn't until much later that Bruce ran into Jason, the only one who respected Bruce's wishes. And even then, it was to punch some thugs. They had coincidentally tracked down the same drug lord, and decided two could do the job better than one.

"Well," Jason muttered as he delivered the knockout blow. The criminal limply fell to the ground at the two vigilantes' feet. "That was easy."

"Yeah," Bruce said simply, debating what to do with the man. Maybe he would hang him by his boots in front of the GCPD. He expected Jason to disappear, to run off into the shadows like he always did. He was more like Bruce in that perspective than any of his brothers; straight to business, leave personal opinions out of the job.

But Jason stood still, awkwardly shuffling his boots. Bruce raised an eyebrow. "There something you need, Jason?"

"Uh. I just wanted to . . . y'know, say thanks or whatever? Happy Father's Day?" Bruce couldn't help but chuckle. Bruce suspected Jason was blushing under his hood. "Whatever. I'm out."

It wasn't until Bruce got home and began to unarm himself that he realized there was a piece of paper stuck in his boot; Jason was always good at pick pocketing from the streets, so slight of hand tricks were a breeze. Unfolding the paper, Bruce smiled at the neat cursive script that Jason had adopted once he became a Wayne. _Thanks_. _Miss you._

* * *

Out of the cave and in the manor, Bruce was ready to sleep. It was near midnight, and after business at Wayne Enterprises and business on the streets of Gotham, it was an understatement to say it was a busy day. On his way to his room, Bruce passed his office. Giving a glance in out of habit, he stopped short.

On the couch near the fireplace were his boys. Dick was spread out across two of the cushions, and Tim was cramped onto the third. Damian was lounging on the back of the couch, much like a cat. Most shockingly of all was Jason, laying horizontal across his brothers' laps. They were all asleep.

 _His boys._ The words used to sound so foreign, but now it was second nature. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, staring as the fireplace crackled and flickered along their sleeping faces. Suddenly Bruce was aware of footsteps behind him, stopping just at his shoulder. Bruce didn't even have to turn; there was only one person that was always at Bruce's side.

"Happy Father's Day, Alfred," he whispered. And he meant it. He didn't like Father's Day—or Mother's Day—because of the many years he sat as a child, staring at the large painting of his parents. But Father's Day was always for Aflred after that day, and soon it was between Bruce and his boys.

"You too, Master Bruce."

* * *

 **Aww! I just HAD to write a chapter about Father's Day! I know it's a day early, but eh. Hope everyone liked it!**

 **A/N #1: I know some countries celebrate Father's Day later, so either Happy Faters day, Happy _early_ Father's Day, or (if for some reason you do not celebrate this holiday), Happy Saturday! :)**

 **A/N #2: Reviews, comments, prompts, suggestions, etc. I LOVE! (as usual)**

 **Stay awesome!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	9. Uncle Clark

There were those days where Bruce just couldn't win. All he wanted was for someone to watch the house.

Bruce's go-to man—or rather, butler—had asked for one of his very few, very rare days off. He was quick to explain that it was dealing with one of his old buddies, but Bruce quickly waved his excuse off; Alfred deserved far more days off than he accepted. Bruce told him to take the day off, or more if need be.

And who would he turn to to watch the manor? Bruce had to leave for the Enterprise to sign some papers or do whatever they needed billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne to do. And he certainly wasn't letting Damian stay home alone. God knows what the kid would do. It was also simply an act out of paranoia: if a nosy reporter wanting dirt about Bruce Wayne were to break in and stumble upon the Batcave? That wouldn't do.

Naturally, next on the list would be Dick, only Bruce had banned Dick from watching the home. No one would let him house-sit after his first (and last) time alone in the manor. It was a subject no one liked to discuss.

No one in their right mind would ask Jason. Tim's excuse was that the Teen Titans needed his help. Next was Diana Prince: she was out fighting some criminal and saving the day. She couldn't "house-sit." He also got an earful, after she assumed he called her because she was a woman, and he must've figured this was a "womanly chore." Not the case at all, but Bruce decided not to fight back. Oliver Queen and Dinah Lance (suspiciously) wouldn't answer their phones, and Hal Jordan was off on some other planet, doing his intergalactic Good Samaritan deeds. He even tried Barry Allen, that's how desperate he had become. The speedster was on a fishing trip with Wally. Bruce didn't ask why in the world they were fishing.

So, gritting his teeth, Bruce called _him_ for help.

Now, Bruce had a lot of reasons for not liking him, but there were some things about him that he couldn't justify for not liking. He was one of those men who could do no bad; who kissed him mother goodbye on his way to work; who was always volunteering and lending a hand; who was just _too good_ of a guy to exist. A superpowered Boy Scout. A sun-shiny somewhat human being. A perfect specimen. The guy who would never gloat. The guy who would always do a favor without asking for anything in return.

So, gritting his teeth, Bruce called Clark for help. And, of course, like the good person he was, he agreed.

* * *

Bruce supposed some of his dislike towards Clark stemmed from years ago, when the League was just forming and Dick was meeting the alien for the first time. Long story short, the boy was star-struck. Stuttering his words, completely ignoring Bruce, following Clark like a baby duck—the whole nine yards. Something about an alien who could fly, had super-strength and laser vision, and was an all around good guy trumps your father dressed as a bat, apparently.

Jason thought he was good, too. He didn't flaunt his obsession, though. He hid his liking in snide comments and crossing his fingers for patrols with the man. Dick was going to be Dick, but now Jason, too? "What does he have that I don't?" Bruce had asked long ago, trying to be casual.

Jason rolled his eyes, shrugging. "Laser vision, super-powers, he can fly, he's nice, he can—"

"Besides the super-powers and the personality?" Bruce couldn't suddenly gain powers, and he wasn't going to smile more to make his sidekick like him.

"He's got a _fortress_!" Jason cried, throwing his hands in the air. "You've got a _cave_!"

Tim liked him, too. But the third Robin was much more conscientious, and would never admit it to Bruce's face. So, in general, Bruce's kids liked Clark more than him. They even called him "Uncle Clark," much to Bruce's chagrine.

And today, Damian would be corrupted, also. So Bruce once more gritted his teeth when he opened the door, and Clark Kent gave him a dazzling smile. He pushed his glasses up his nose, and swore to Bruce things would be perfectly fine. Bruce sighed, and left his house in the hands of his ultimate frenemy.

* * *

Clark would never get over how large the manor was. Spending his whole childhood in Smallville, he was still getting used to skyscrapers. This place was like a _castle_. Almost a little guiltily, Clark decided to give himself a tour. He was suppose to watch the house, after all. Alfred and each of the Robins were no longer home, leading to the entire house being utterly silent. Each footstep sounded like a gunshot as he made his way through Bruce's home. He admired some of the antiques and paintings that lined the corridors, but most of the decorations were covered in white sheets to prevent any dust from collecting. _Geez_ , Clark thought, _I didn't think he lived the whole dark, gloomy, depressing thing. I thought it was an act._

Clark was halfway through the house when he heard a scuffle. Wasn't he home alone? Frowning, Clark made his way to the door the sound came from; it was easy to locate, with his super-hearing. Ever so slowly, he opened the door. It led to a bedroom, but it was mostly bare. A few weapons hung from the walls, a few clothes were abandoned mid-folding. Clark looked around. He could've _sworn_ he heard something—and with his ears, he was usually right.

And suddenly something fell from the ceiling, straight on Clark's neck. In the blink of an eye, he was on the ground, and a foot was pressed against his neck. Blinking in shock, Clark peered through his glasses at his attacker, who was only just realizing it was Clark he attacked.

"Kent?" asked the figure in confusion. Clark thought for a moment he was looking at Bruce. If Bruce was ten years old.

"Damian?" Clark guessed. Suddenly it clicked in his head. When Bruce said "Watch my house and Damian," Clark figured Damian was a cat or something. He didn't realize Damian was Bruce's _son_ —and the current, defiant Robin.

The boy agilely lifted himself from the alien, frowning. "What do you think you're doing here?"

"House-sitting," Clark mumbled, touching his slightly sore throat. "And apparently baby-sitting, too."

Damian scowled. _Yeah, this kid is definitely Bruce's. He even has Bruce's_ _scowl_. " _Tt_. Father doesn't believe me fit to be unwatched for a day?" With that, Damian turned on his heel and stalked away. Clark scrambled to his feet, hurrying after. Exiting the room, Clark looked up and down the hallway, looking for the child he was entrusted with. He even checked the ceiling this time. Swearing, Clark blindly took off down a random hall in search of the Robin.

* * *

This was far, far worse than normal baby-sitting. Part of it was because he couldn't find the baby. Clark searched everywhere, too. He checked every room, every rooftop, and every garden. His only conclusion was that Damian had left the grounds, and was now set loose on Gotham. Clark knew Bruce wasn't going to like this a bit. Clark lost Bruce's kid in his own house. To be fair, though, the kid was one step below super-ninja, and he had Bruce's genetics.

Shrugging on his jacket, Clark headed for the door. How he would find the League of Assassins raised boy in an entire city, he had not the slightest clue. Throwing open the door, Clark let out a yelp of surprise. Walking up to the entrance was Bruce. The Batman gave a forced smile towards Clark, briefcase in hand. "I trust everything went alright?" he mumbled, brushing past Bruce and into the house.

Clark rubbed the back of his head. "Yeah, everything went—uh, well, no. The house is fine. But, er. . . ."

Bruce paused his action of loosening his tie. "What are you babbling on about?"

"I kind of lost your kid," Clark blurted out. Bruce continued to stare, blank-faced. _God, what was he thinking?_

Bruce only shrugged. "Okay."

Clark stood in stunned silence, eyes wide and mouth ajar. "'Okay'? That's it?"

Another shrug from Bruce as he removed his tie. "It's Damian. He'll be fine. He's probably off somewhere." Clark could understand that, in a way. If the kid could escape Superman in a matter of seconds, he could probably hold his own against a few thugs.

The door to Wayne Manor opened once more. Alfred walked in, coat misted with the beginnings of rain. He gave a smile to each of the men, shaking out his umbrella and closing it. "Good evening, Master Bruce. Mister Kent."

"Hello, Alfred." Bruce said breezily, eyeing a newspaper he carried in with him. Clark wondered why Alfred hadn't closed the door yet. The floor was already slick with water.

"By the way, Master Bruce," Alfred continued, "I think I found something you might have been looking for."

"And what is that, Alfred?" Bruce said, eyes never leaving the newspaper. Not a moment later, Clark watched with immense relief ad Damian strolled through the door, kicking it closed moodily. At the noise, Bruce did glance up from the paper ever so briefly. "Oh, hello, Damian."

The soaked and soggy boy walked past the three men, shoes squishing as he mounted the stairs. There was a damp pile of paper in his hands. All he would say was, "My book got wet."

* * *

Bruce knew he should have felt guilty, but he really, really didn't.

Damian was facing the length of Bruce's office, hair still wet and dripping. He had at least accepted dry clothes before his tangent. Sitting behind his desk, Bruce felt like he was being lectured.

"How could you leave me with _him_ , Father?" Damian inquired crossly. "As if I could not be left alone for a few hours. You hired Kent to watch me?"

Bruce smirked as he signed another Wayne Enterprises paper. "I won't make that mistake again, I'm sure."

"I'm not a child! I'm nearly eleven now."

Bruce shook his head, amusing the boy. "You sure aren't." He should have been reprimanding Damian for speaking ill of such a close friend. He should have felt guilty. But, he was just glad that someone shared his unexplainable dislike of the too-cheery man. It seemed Damian really was Bruce's son, in that perspective.

* * *

 **So, there we go! I might slowly incorporate the Justice League into this fic, though it will still be centered around the Batfam. Hope you guys enjoyed! As always, reviews are the best! I love reading them, and your prompts are greatly accepted! See you guys next week!**

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	10. Cats and Dogs and Cows (Oh my!)

Jason wasn't sure what he had missed. Usually, on his few occasions he returned home to Wayne Manor, things would be slightly different. A new foe, a new alliance, a new rug—small things that Jason could shrug off. But, when he entered the Batcave and saw Damian and _it_ , he knew that Bruce had simply let Damian run wild.

"What is _that_?" Jason accused in confusion, jabbing a finger at the animal standing in the center of the room. Bruce merely shook his head in dismay, refusing to look up from his computer.

Damian, who was sitting next to the animal, shrugged. "You've never seen a cow before, Todd?"

Jason blinked once. Then twice. This was some prank, right? "I _mean_ , what's it doing here in the cave?"

" _Tt_. Must I spell it out for you? This is my new pet."

Jason whirled on Bruce. "You let him have a _cow_ , Bruce?"

"I've decided to call her Bat-Cow," Damian put in, as if that helped this conversation in any way.

Jason glared at the youngest, a mix of exasperation and jealousy brewing inside him. "'Bat-Cow'? You guys are nuts. Call it Bat-Steak and I'm in." Damian only glared at his brother, while patting the livestock on its head. It let out a content _moo_. "So, when I asked for a cat, it was 'Too outrageous and time-consuming.' But a freakin' cow?"

"I have a cat, too. I've decided to call him Alfred."

" _He has a cat, too?_ " Jason asked. "Bruce, you just let him take in strays?" Jason suddenly remembered begging Bruce for a cat, and Bruce adamantly saying no. Perhaps all he needed to do was bring one home and declare it was his.

Bruce's eyes remained fixed on his computer, as not to be dragged into the drama. "You try telling him no. Besides, he likes them more than people."

"So you just let him keep a cat and a cow?"

"And a dog. His name is Titus."

 _Titus? Bat-Cow?_ Jason rolled his eyes and declared sarcastically, "You're really good at the whole naming thing."

Damian glared. "Do you want to see a trick, Todd?" Jason carefully took note of Damian's tone: dangerous. Before he could deny, Damian shouted, " _Attack!_ " The Red Hood froze, listening as the order echoed around the cave. A few seconds passed, and the quick padding of paws sounded. The clacking of claws on stone made Damian smirk. "I would run."

* * *

 **Hey guys!**

 **A/N #1: First and foremost: this is quite a short chapter. That's because (drumroll please) I'm updating a Fourth of July chapter! I think you can assume what day I'm posting it. It's 2.5k, so hopefully that'll make up for the shortness.**

 **A/N #2: Note that I haven't read any comics involving any of Damian's pets, but I decided with a cat, a dog, and a cow under his belt, Damian could have some fun with them. Some great prompts or info would be greatly appreciated, as usual!**

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	11. The Fourth of July

Dick had it coming, really. Dark sunglasses, a sleeveless American flag printed tank top, and swim trunks, he was just asking for someone to pick on him. Someone, per usual, being Jason.

"Someone's awfully patriotic," Jason noted dully as he stared at his dork of a brother. He was sitting on the couch, lazily enduring the heat of mid-July. Tim was off on a grocery run, and Damian was curled up in a chair, a thick novel in his lap. Another sign that he was definitely Bruce's kid.

Dick huffed. "It's the Fourth of July, Jason. Of course I'm being patriotic!" Jason shrugged, too tired to argue. It had to be at least a hundred degrees, though Alfred was constantly stating it was only mid-nineties. _It's the humidity, Master Jason_ , the butler would say. _It's damn hot_ , the boy would reply.

Damian crossly slammed his book shut, deciding with his brothers' loud mouths he would never concentrate. "Ah, yes. _This_ holiday."

Dick crossed his arms, taking irrational and inappropriate offense the same way all Americans do when their nation's pride is slandered. Jason arched an eyebrow at the youngest. "You got something against the Fourth of July, Dee?"

"Oh, no, no." Damian held his hands out in a placating manner, his voice dripping with sarcasm. That was one thing the Wayne family had regretted: Damian had picked up all their sarcasm and snark. "I have nothing against the holiday where wasted, obnoxious Americans light explosives in the name of pride. It seems very fun."

"What does?" questioned Tim as he entered the room. A single grocery bag was in his hand.

"The Fourth of July," Jason informed. "Damian's a big fan, apparently."

Tim furrowed his brows. "Have you even celebrated a Forth of July, Damian? I mean, is that a League of Assassins holiday? They're not American, but we celebrate St. Patrick's Day, right? Is it universal?"

Tim's brothers ignored his philosophical questions. "I just don't see what the big deal is. It seems stupid."

"It seems _awesome_!" Jason protested. "It's the one day of the year it's legal to set off explosives. And it's another reason to get wasted."

"Not like you need another one of those," Dick mumbled. He, unlike Jason, enjoyed the holiday for its meaning, not its activities. Good ole' American pride. The scrappy, hungry, young country. The real heroes off fighting crime in enemy territories. "I think it's fun."

Tim pulled out a box from the shopping bag. It was a box of firecrackers. "Bruce won't be home 'til late. Wanna have some fun?"

* * *

Their definitions of "fun" were very, _very_ different. Dick had cleared the back lawn, setting up a few old porch chairs. Damian was sitting in one, reading his fine literature and studiously ignoring his idiotic brothers.

"If I light this and don't let go, do you really think it would blow my hand off?"

Tim quickly snatched a firecracker from Jason, who was ogling it like a five-year-old. "How about we _not_ try that?" Jason frowned. He was only at his family home because they insisted on keeping him on lockdown. Bruce didn't trust Jason after last year's Fourth of July: it involved Roy, four cases of beer, several illegal Chinese fireworks, and a couple million dollars in damage. They were trying to limit the destruction this year, but Jason still managed to land his hands on a beer or two. Or five. Dick was sure Jason had a stash somewhere in the manor, but it had yet to be located. Tim resumed his crouched position on the ground, and fidgeted with the instructions on one of the packages. "How do you set these up?"

"Let me try," a slightly intoxicated Jason insisted. Tim slapped his brother's hand away.

"Dick, help me with these fireworks."

"Nope." Dick rushed back into the manor. He was rushing inside and outside, trying to steal as many snacks as possible while Alfred wasn't looking, which was easy, as Alfred tried to avoid anything relating to his boys and explosives. So far, Dick managed to collect two bags of Twizzlers, five bottles of soda, a large bowl of popcorn, and enough supplies to make a few hundred s'mores.

Tim sighed. "Damian, help me with these fireworks."

"No."

Tim glared. Damian was dragged outside, but he was content with forgetting his brothers existed. Suddenly, an idea struck the Red Robin. "I bet you don't even know how to light a firework."

Damian pouted, eyes locked on his text. "I do too."

Tim only hummed. "Sure you do, Little Dee."

Damian lifted his eyes, which were narrowed with suspicion. "Are you challenging me, Drake?"

"I guess I am, Damian." The two stared icily at each other. With a sigh, Damian slapped his book closed and slid off the old chair.

"Fine. It's not like it's hard."

Tim chuckled to himself as he sat back in the green grass. He watched as Damian crouched beside the supplies: a few matches, a few individual rockets, and the discarded trash. Damian huffed as he struck a match. He set the rocket on the ground . . . and it fell over. Damian scowled as he picked up the rocket once more. Tim tried to hide his smirk. The rocket fell over again. The third time Damian set the rocket up, it stayed. With a small, self-satisfied smile, Damian shoved the match under the rocket . . . and the match went out before the rocket's wick could ignite. Damian stared a moment at the rocket, which toppled once more into the grass. Tim watched, assuming Damian would pick up another match. Or at least call Tim a name and insist this was idiotic.

But he simply tossed the once-lit match into the grass, rose, and walked away.

Dick bumped into Damian as they both approached the doorway, Dick going out and Damian in. "What's up, Dee?" Damian stalked past the eldest, who had managed to grab a few cookies. Dick frowned and turned to view the yard. Jason was chugging his God-knows-what-number beer, and Tim alone in the dirt. "What happened?"

Tim shrugged. "I dunno." Dick turned his attention to the small pile of sugar-laced treats. Timbit his lip, a nagging voice in his head telling him he was an ass.

* * *

He found Damian where he always was: on the roof. Tim never understood why Damian enjoyed it up there. It was drafty and certainly the dirtiest place on the grounds, and there was always that small natural fear of falling that years of vigilantism could never beat down, only suppress. Damian was sitting on the very edge, legs dangling off of the side of the roof. The way you would approach a wild, dangerous animal, Tim took a seat next to his brother. A few feet away. Tim still wasn't sure that Damian wouldn't push him over the edge.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"You know what." Tim could never get much out of Damian. Dick was always over-bearing and annoying, but he eventually cracked through Damian's hard walls. Jason just didn't really care; he was a nuisance, but he related to Damian's rage. Tim was just Damian's competition, his enemy. Damian hated Tim, and Tim was annoyed by the newest, as the Joker himself would say, Bat-Brat. Tim sighed, well-knowing Damian wasn't going to say anything else. His pride was too bruised. Tim could read his look easily. Damian hadn't gotten that look until well into his stay with Bruce. It was the way he looked when he saw normal kids, doing normal things, like riding bikes or doing homework or gossiping. Damian was far smarter, an far more mature than any kid, but Tim could read Damian's mind: _What kid doesn't know how to light a firework? An assassin, that's what kind of kid._

"Have you ever held a sparkler?" Tim knew the answer, of course. Damian knew Tim knew, so he stayed silent. Tim went on. "Well, they're pretty cool. I guess it's like a firework on a stick." Damian gave Tim a confused but mildly interested look. Tim went on. "Y'know, they're Bruce's favorite." Damian looked back to whatever he was staring at. Tim couldn't tell; it was getting dark now. Bruce would be home soon. "I can show you. . . ." Tim weakly trailed off. It was barely noticeable, but Tim smiled when he saw his brother give the smallest of nods.

* * *

"Is this a weapon?"

Dick laughed, staring with excitement at his sparkler. "No, Damian. It's not a weapon."

Jason lightly tapped his chin with a finger. He was severely drunk now. Where the hell was he getting all his liquor? "I suppose you could. . . ."

Tim rolled his eyes. Those two and their weapons. He picked up another sparkler, lighting the end. Damian gave a little jump as the end of the stick lit up in a bundle of sparks. Tim grinned. Damian wasn't a kid, really. He was trained to be a mature soldier. But here, sweaty and hot and tired and staring at the small festive trick, Damian shared that look all kids had when they were given their first sparkler. That look where they realized they were holding a star in their hands. Tim nudged the stick into Damian's hand, eager to pass it on before the flame went out. Damian cringed slightly, pinching the stick as far away from the lit end as possible.

"Are you positive it won't burn me?"

Tim smiled. "Ninety-nine-percent." Damian looked as if he were unsure about that last percent, but he disregarded it. He was staring at the sparkler, watching as the light fizzled downwards. Deciding it was getting too close to his hand for comfort, he dropped it into the grass. It snuffed out into a cloud of smoke. "That wasn't so bad, was it, Dee?"

Damian shrugged, pretending he wasn't impressed. Tim passed his brother another, knowing the boy wanted to see the light again. Jason reached for a sparkler, but was restrained by Dick. Jason had too many What-If scenarios for them to be comfortable with his possession of a firework. In his drunken state, he would probably burn the house down. Again.

At some point, after the sky had turned black and the stars came into view, Alfred made his appearance. He looked pleased when he saw Damian, childishly happy for once. With help from Dick and Tim, the three started a fire. Dick was on s'more duty, and was making far more than necessary. Alfred turned down the messy treats, but agreed to sit next to the young man in one of the chairs. Jason was lying on his back, the bag of Twizzlers laying half-empty on his stomach. Damian sat by the edge of the fire, lighting off a sparkler when he wished to.

Suddenly, a figure came into view, only a shadow in the outskirts of the firelight. "Looks like you all are having fun."

Dick grinned, chocolate covering his face and marshmallow in his hair. "Bruce!"

"Thought y'were gonna miss th'party!" came Jason's drunken slur from the ground. Bruce didn't look too surprised by that. Tim gave a small wave as he plucked a piece of popcorn from the bowl. All of the family (besides Jason, who was too drunk to know where he was) noticed Bruce's shocked, but proud smile as his eyes came upon Damian, who was to busy staring at a sparkler to notice his father's presence. Slowly, Bruce made his way around the fire to Damian, where he took a seat.

Damian glanced up. "Oh. It's nice to see you home, Father."

Bruce gave a warm smile, something rare for the man to do. "You too, Damian."

"Wanna s'more, Bruce?" Dick was on his eighth already, and was jittery from the sugar. Alfred rolled his eyes.

"Actually, I was thinking . . . ," Bruce announced, lifting himself from the ground. Damian frowned at the motion, and his sparkler went out. Bruce walked over to Tim, and lifted a small cylinder-shaped package. "We should maybe light some fireworks."

Dick let out a whoop; Jason tried and failed to stand up; Alfred gave a small, exasperated nod; Tim grinned, as fireworks were always his favorite; Damian looked at his fists in his lap, and fiddled with the charred remains of the sparkler. The boys and Alfred dashed of, running farther into the darkness to more open spaces to light off the fireworks. Bruce almost didn't notice Damian's lack of enthusiasm. Well, that was typical for the boy, but now he looked simply glum.

"Something wrong, Damian?" Bruce asked lightly. Damian was like a bird; come on too fast or too strong, and he would fly away.

Damian didn't meet his father's eyes as he played some more with the blackened wick. "I . . . don't know how to light fireworks, Father."

Bruce stared at his boy for a thoughtful moment. Then he extended his hand. Damian looked at it, then to his father's eyes. "Well, that's alright. I guess I'll just have to teach you."

Damian looked back to his father's hand. A moment passed. Then Damian threw the sparkler to the ground and grabbed his father's hand. Bruce helped his boy to his feet. The two headed off into the darkness, and Bruce couldn't help but smile. He draped an arm around his son's shoulders, and went off to teach his Damian how to light a firework.

* * *

 **Aww! I can't help but write something fluffy on an occasion like this! A thought struck me that Damian probably never celebrated this holiday, or possibly _any_ holiday (Aw! D: ), and I just had to write.**

 **A/N #1: For those of you who celebrate the Fourth of July, Happy Fourth of July! For those of you who don't, have a great, happy day! Happy birthday America. (And, let's face it, Steve Rogers, probably.)**

 **A/N #2: On a bit more of a serious note, I feel like the partying of this holiday overshadows some of its importance. I know we have Veteran's and Memorial Day, but this is as good a day as any to celebrate our past/current veterans! Give someone you know who served (or just someone you love) a hug today!**

 **A/N #4: This story got the most views in the month of June, beating my Marvel story of similar theming,** One Slightly Murderous Family **(*cough cough* You should check it out *cough*) by over 2K. Thanks guys!**

 **A/N #4: For those of you who noticed the Hamilton reference, your prize is a digital cookie! Yay!**

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	12. This is Why I Don't Visit Bludhaven

Looking back at it, Dick fully realized he couldn't really arrest Jason. I mean, sure, jaywalking was a crime. But did he really have to arrest his brother when he was spotted walking across the streets of Bludhaven?

Let's rephrase that: Did he really have to publicly harass and embarrass his little brother? The answer, of course, was yes.

Dick was sitting in his patrol car, half-listening to the radio as his fellow policemen called in orders, and he was bored out of his mind. He wasn't used to sitting and waiting for crime to come to him; as Nightwing and Robin, he ran to the crimes headfirst and fists ready. He wasn't used to the life of a normal "vigilante." He sighed, chewing his already bland and flavorless gum, and stared out his window. Boredom sucks.

And a figure caught his eye. The man walked across the street, only a few yards from the crosswalk. Several others had done that to save time, so Dick usually ignored it. There wasn't much traffic, so there wasn't really a problem. Hood pulled low, the figure was halfway across the street when Dick let out a gasp.

Leapin out of his cop car, Dick grinned like a maniac. He grabbed Jason's arm just as he hit the sidewalk, the action of "jaywalking" complete. "Sir, I believe I'm going to have to take you in."

After a brief moment of shock, Jason shrugged off Dick's hand. They both knew Dick would never turn Jason in. They were brothers, after all. "What the hell are you talking about? Whatever. Go get a donut or something," Jason mumbled, pulling his hood lower and gazing across the street. He didn't like when attention was drawn to him.

Dick smiled freely. "Well, I think I have plenty, Mr. Todd." Jason giaced at the formal, too-cheery voice. He was obviously joking, but the joke wasn't over. "For one, you were jaywalking."

Jason raised an eyebrow as he glanced at the crosswalk, merely feet away. "You've got to be kidding me." Before he could say another word, he was turned and pinned against the police car. Dick held Jason's hands behind his back with one hand, and grabbed his ticket book with the other. Jason let out a few choice words as he squirmed. He face was pinned against the hood.

"I'm gonna have to give you a citation. Mind if I use your back to write it out? Thanks."

"Screw you, Dick."

The Bludhaven cop frowned. "Hm. I might have to turn you in for that. Calling cops offensive names, resisting arrest—"

"It's your _name_ , you asshole!" Dick shrugged, putting the small book against Jason's back and scribbling out a note. It wasn't for real, but it was damn funny. "This is exactly why I don't come to visit."

Dick smirked. "You wouldn't happen to know the date, would you?"

"Hate you, Grayson. Hate you so much."

"Hate is a strong word." Dick chirped happily.

* * *

 **A little on the short side, but pretty sweet. Disclaimer: This idea was taken from an amazing fan art with a little bit of shared dialogue. Not sure who drew it, but it was cute so I decided to write. As always, reviews are the best! I'm always taking prompts!**

 **A/N: Next week is my very first week of band camp! (Any band geeks out there?) Anyway, it's roughly nine hours, five days a week. My point is, I'm not sure how much I'll be writing the next two weeks. That doesn't mean I won't try, I'm just not making any promises. Thanks for understanding.**

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	13. Pokémon Go Fuck You

It was a petty, low move, even for Bruce. Jason was determined not to stoop to his father's level. Sure, he hadn't been home in a while. And sure, Bruce was getting a bit creative with ways to lure Jason home. But Jason, upon realizing what the most feared man in Gotham had done, simply crossed his arms and pouted.

Not fair. It wasn't fair at all.

* * *

Dick, upon learning what Bruce had done, had laughed. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

"Bruce, that's pathetic."

The eldest Wayne simply shrugged, fingers tapping at his keyboard rapidly. "Just watch. He'll be home in a few days."

That much, Dick was sure of, mainly because of a little something that had taken Gotham—and apparently most of the world—by storm. Dick himself was an avid Pokémon fan, ever since he was a child. This sudden popularity of his childhood past time brought back memories. Particularly, memories of beating his successor's ass at the card game.

And if there was one thing Bruce did, it was observe. He casually observed years ago that Jason had taken a liking to the all too famous Pikachu. Bruce also observed that Gotham had a suspicious lacking of the creature. A bit of easy technological tinkering, and viola.

Dick sighed, scrolling through his Pokédex. "I get the whole idea of making the manor a Pikachu hotspot, but can't you make some others appear? I've got thirty-two pudgy yellow Pikachus. A Charmander or something would be nice.

Bruce smirked. God, his son was a nerd. "Beggars can't be choosers, Dick."

"You freakin' hacked the game, Bruce. Your words of wisdom are built on a platform of lies."

* * *

Damian was a full-fledged maniac.

The young boy had resisted the game at first. Hearing his brothers' nonstop gushing about it had obviously made him hate the game more. If his weird brothers found it exciting, it had to be nerdy and childish.

As the days dragged on, though, his curiosity had gotten the best of him. One morning he was noticed missing. His whereabouts weren't known until the next day, when he showed up at the doorstep with his phone and a good fifty Pokémon.

Since then, he's been the fiend of the family. Out all day catching whatever he can, he has been trying to become the best trainer of the family. Tim was much more practical, picking and choosing which Pokémon he collected. With his skills, he definitely was owner of the most Gyms. Dick simply had the most years out of the family, but otherwise was a casual player. Damian was second when it came to overall skill.

And second wasn't good enough for Damian. Somehow, Alfred was going to be knocked off of his high horse.

* * *

Bruce wasn't much of a gamer, when it came down to it. Since his boys became addicted to their new game, his nights were a bit more . . . hectic.

It wasn't uncommon to see Dick trying to explain to Alfred how to play the original card game in the den. Typically swearing could be heard from Tim's room as he managed his Gyms. Damian could often be seen lurking in the shadows, or slinking out a window.

This was partially why when Bruce saw a figure entering through the window, he thought nothing of it. That, and the fact that his boys couldn't seem how to properly use the front door. But on second inspection, the figure was much too large to be his youngest.

"Jason?"

The criminal froze, half in a crouch at the base of the window. Bruce, eyebrow arched, watched as Jason's hand flew to his phone. An act that Bruce could recognize as throwing a Pokéball followed, and Jason grinned. Well, Bruce thought, at least Jason finally caught his what's-it-called.

Jason promptly turned and leapt out the window, calling over his shoulder, "Pokémon Go fuck you!"

* * *

 **I'd like to think my excuse for not posting any Batfam one-shots is because they've been goofing off and playing Pokémon Go this whole time.**

 **But that's not really the case. S** **tarting my freshman year in high school was a lot more time consuming than I had planned. I'm taking all honors classes, an online course, and obviously school itself takes up a lot of time in my day. But mainly, it was band.**

 **Some of you had asked about what band camp was. Basically, for two weeks before school started, my marching band spent nine-hour days in the Florida sun working on marching techniques. Since school has started, I have after school practice until 6:30 PM Mondays and Wednesdays, and starting two weeks ago, Fridays we prep for football games directly after school until roughly 11:00. And, to put the cherry on top, I'm in the school's jazz band.**

 **It takes a lot of time, and hell, a whole lot of money, but it's freaking awesome. My four years in band and first year in marching band are experiences I'll never forget, just like this website. If you're considering joining band, I highly encourage it. I went from a severe introvert with (I kid you not) no friends, to someone with over a hundred kids I wouldn't hesitate to call my family. And it actually convinced me to go outside for once. Oh, yeah: Any band people out there? Any trumpets out there? (Woot trumpets!)**

 **So, yeah. A lot of my time's been spent. It certainly didn't help my writer's block, because whenever I logged on, I felt it was more productive to work on my online course or do online homework rather than write, and I had no inspiration. I had stories to tell, but no time to tell them. They just kind of sat in my head, big what-ifs.**

 **But it feels good to be writing again. I've seen your comments, guys. Every single one. And too many times I've been the reader begging an inactive story to suddenly spring to life. It felt awful, not writing.**

 **I'm not sure if my posting will be routine. I definitely won't post every active story every week, but I'll try to get one or two at the very least.**

 **If you're still reading, thank you. Thanks so much. For reading all this useless nonsense, for reading my story/stories. For even just reading this chapter because it caught your eye.**

 **Thanks.**

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	14. Growth Spurt

It was bound to happen sooner or later. It still took Bruce by surprise, nonetheless.

Damian was a child. Despite the snarls, the advanced knowledge and acute sense of weaponry, the poise and control and wisdom beyond his years, he was a child. If Damian would ever let his father, Bruce was sure he could hold the boy with one arm. His fit, lithe frame kept him small, and just like the Waynes, his manly growth spurt came later than most.

Bruce wasn't quite sure what to do when he noticed Damian looting through Dick and Tim's old hand-me-downs, and that his slacks were a few inches too high, showing a good bit of ankle.

Bruce wasn't sure what to do when the childlike snarls and sneers became less childlike, and the hilarity of hearing a small boy's voice throw serious, life-threatening insults lost its hilarity when the voice wasn't so young.

But mostly, Bruce wasn't sure what to do when he looked at his son one morning and suddenly realized _was he always that tall? Wasn't his face rounder, his frame smaller?_

Alfred smiled mercilessly, having already experienced this with Bruce himself. The boy, when Alfred would insist on one last hug or something extremely childish, would make a face. "I'm not that old," Bruce would respond, though Alfred stated his young master grew like a tree. Yes, Alfred was enjoying Bruce's crisis a bit too much.

Dick was on his way to teenage years when he and the Batman had become acquaintances. Therefore, not much time was spent on gushing over his transition into manhood. They were more touch-and-go, less emotional. That didn't mean Dick laughed any less than Alfred when Bruce wwould randomly try to pick up Damian like a toddler, and the grandchild of the Demon himself would fidget and pout.

Jason, to put it simply, disliked being home for this very reason. Bruce wasn't as much of a "crybaby" when the Red Hood strolled through his doors, but there was a similar look in his eyes that said if Jason didn't have an AK-47, Bruce would try to hug the criminal.

Tim found this entire experience humorous until Bruce started carrying him over his shoulder, too.

* * *

 **Just a little drabble based off a head canon I saw. (Giving credit where credit is due.)**

 **As usual, suggestions and constructive criticism are nice. They help me determine what to write, what not to, etc. Are the characters too OOC? Do you want more canonically, somber chapters? Is having stoney characters performing goofy antics your cup of tea? More characters you want me to write about?**

 **Thanks for reading, guys. I'll try to update next week (but let's face it: International Relations Honors can be a real biotch when it comes to homework).**

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	15. Too Soon?

It all started with Damian's rationality.

"Well," he began one October morning, "if I'm going to be participating in this childish event, then I shall 'pretend' to be something I'm very well at."

"Is that so?" Bruce mumbled, eyes glued to Gotham's morning paper. He was only half-hearing what his sons had proclaimed.

"I'll be a ninja. After all, i do have authentic weapons."

Bruce'a head snapped up as horrible ideas emerged in his mind.

"Perhaps I could bring my cleaver. Or would a fencing sword be better? A bowstaff could—"

"Damian, _absolutely not_."

* * *

Luckily, his other children weren't so awful. Alright, perhaps that was a by straightforward, even for Bruce.

Dick and Barbara were swapping identities; one Nightwing and one Batgirl, just not the right person behind the mask. Tim had decided on Sherlock Holmes. ("Nerd," Dick had scoffed, shortly before his face was colliding with the ground.)

And, of course, Bruce himself had lost a bet. It was many months ago, on a patrol with Dick and Tim around two in the morning. Bruce was thoroughly surprised they had even remembered the deal.

Sadly for Bruce, the deal was he had to trick-or-treat with them in a costume. A Superman costume.

On Halloween Eve, Bruce gritted his teeth and prayed they didn't run into Smallville anytime during the night. He did suppose his boys would take lots of pictures.

With a pouting Damian ("Can't I bring a _real_ katana? I promise I won't hurt anyone. _Anything's_ better than this styrofoam garbage!"), a tactical Tim (who had planned out the perfect route to achieving the maximum amount of candy), and a lovey-dovey Dick and Barbara (" _Get a room!_ ") the dysfunctional family set out for a hectic night.

* * *

It wasn't so bad, Bruce thought as he observed his children walking up to the neighborhood front-porches. They three boys and single girl knocked on the door and held open their bags. Bruce half-smiled from his spot on the sidewalk.

"Well, _hullo!_ " a raspy, drawling voice shouted. Bruce flinched, whirling on the figure behind him. "If it isn't good ol' Batsy!"

One part of Bruce went into fight mode, ready to roundhouse kick the foe into next Tuesday. Another part of Bruce embarrassedly realized he was wearing a Superman suit he got from the costume shop. A third and final part recognized the face paint, grin, and voice beneath the on-point accent.

"Jason?" Bruce gaped.

Another toothy grin, outlined by the fair paint covering his face. Hair dyed green and combed back, a few tattoos drawn here and there. It was unnervingly perfect. After all, Jason had a very close and personal encounter with the Joker himself.

As if reading Bruce'S mind, Jason loosely twirled a crowbar around, absentmindedly observing his father'S face. "Too soon?"

Before Bruce could answer, Damian promptly thwacked Jason on the head with his styrofoam katana. The Joker imposter was soon surrounded by his siblings, their emotions ranging from hysterical admiration to abject horror. Bruce once more diverged from the group, trying to remain as unseen in his Superman suit as possible.

"Hey, Bruce, can we go to the GCPD? I hear Gordon's hosting a costume contest."

Bruce rolled his eyes. "That's on the other side of town. Can't you just get some candy and head home?"

Across the street, a figure with square glasses and dark hair turned. "Bruce? Bruce, is that you wearing my costume?" Clark exclaimed with a too-wide grin. Hell, he was ecstatic at the sight.

"C'mon, kids," Bruce said rather hurriedly as he pushed the teens down the sidewalk. "To the GCPD. Or wherever. Just not here. No—don't look back. Don't look—JASON, PUT DOWN THE DAMN PHONE. NOW'S NOT THE TIME FOR PICTURES."

* * *

Al **right, alright. I know, this isn't in character at all. Let me dream! I can only imagine evenings like this as chaotic and hilarious. Tried to keep it short, as I know many of you have school today and are going straight into Halloween mode. I know I am.**

 **Disclaimer: this was loosely based off of a fan art I saw a while ago. Yes, I have waited months to write about this.**

 **Hope you all have a safe Halloween and get lots of candy and perform well in the Skeleton War. Also for those who don't celebrate Halloween, have a spoopy night! Thanks for reading.**

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	16. I'm Grateful For

The table was set, and the family had sat. Simply Bruce, Alfred, and the boys had decided to attend the gathering; a small amount compared to the socialite parties they had become used to attending.

Bruce gave a small smile, looking around the table at his small, but surprisingly still intact, family. "Would anyone like to say what they're thankful for?"

His father, when he was still alive, would start their annual Thanksgiving meal with such a statement. Bruce had tried to keep that living, but as the years wore on, it slowly began to fade from tradition.

The boys, already halfway to scooping food onto their plates, froze in confusion. Slowly, the returned their hands, then shared watchful glances. A beat passed.

Then damian raised his hand.

Bruce smiled. "Go ahead, Damian."

"I'm glad we haven't died."

"Speak for yourself," Jason mumbled darkly.

Alfred scoffed, but Bruce shot him a scolding look. "That's . . . very kind, Damian. Anyone else?"

Dick shrugged. "Uh, our health, I guess?"

"That's practically the same thing Dami said," Tim retorted. "Health, life—what's the difference?"

"There is too a difference!"

"Not really, idiot."

"Boys," Bruce interjected. His voice went unheard between the two.

"Shut up, Drake."

"You shut up, Grayson."

"Boys, we haven't even cut the turkey yet!"

"No, _you_ shut up."

"No, _you_ shut up."

Damian sighed, dropping his head onto the table with a light _thump_. Jason shrugged, ignoring Bruce's wishing and reaching for a slab of turkey.

"I'm thankful for Alfred's cooking. If it weren't here, I wouldn't be, either."

* * *

 **Yes, yes, this is extremely short. But A, it's a holiday. Gimme a break. And B, I wrote this within an hour because I have _so much homework_. Sorry I'm behind on my updating, but I have an 86 and a 75 in Spanish 2 and International Relations, respectively. Trust me, school work is not what I want to be doing. **

**But, enough airing of my grievances. For one, I'm thankful for my readers, followers, and favorite-ers. Thanks for sticking with me, through thick and thin. Also, thanks to my new beta, Maniac Jack.**

 **Have a safe, Happy Thanksgiving (or a random Thursday for those who don't celebrate it).**

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


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